


You Did

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Castiel and Netflix, Castiel in the Bunker, Comfort/Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Nightmares, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Dean Winchester, Sad Castiel, Scared Castiel, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5299220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas’s chest deflates like an old balloon and Dean can almost see his thoughts floating into the distant sky like one of its cousins. He opens his mouth to speak, fumbles over the tension laden air, and closes it just as quick. Dean doesn’t move his hand, nor does he divert his eyes. It’s the first time in a long time Cas isn’t directly meeting his gaze. </p><p>“It’s you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Did

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna be honest, I really just wanted Sam and Cas to have a Netflix and Chill day. Then Destiel had to go and join the party.

"Cas, are you wearing my clothes?"

Sam shouldn't be surprised, really. Hell, he should be happy Cas _changed_. He's been cooped up in Sam's room like a death row delinquent for days. Sam doesn't have the mental nor physical strength to scoot him out. Cas is actually kind of cute when he's not obliterating people.

"....Who says they're not mine? Or Dean's?"

Sam squares his face, suppressing a huff of laughter. "Unless you plan on sprouting up the beanstalk, Jack," he says, failing miserably, "I can safely say that they're mine."

"Sorry." Cas fidgets with a loose thread on Sam's red flannel.

"Cas, don't get me wrong, I'm glad that you're enjoying yourself or whatever, but how long has it been since your last siesta?" Cas catches flies in his mouth before Sam cuts in, "'During Larry's scenes' is not an acceptable answer."

"Which regeneration was the Doctor with the funny scarves?"

"Dude," Sam gapes, sitting on the edge of the bed— _his_ bed—that curves beneath him like a cheap spoon, sifting through his queue, "you got through 50 years of 'Doing The Time Warp' and almost three whole seasons of 'That's So Piper', but haven't even touched _American Horror Story_?!"

Cas looks like he's about to retreat into the covers he adopted. "Piper grows on you," he murmurs in a small, unconvincing voice. Sam narrows his eyes. "Okay, fine, I'm scared, alright? I'm… scared."

Sam swears he feels his eyes bulge out of their sockets as he gathers just what to say. "I... uh, um," he coughs intelligently, shifting to meet the pleading oceanic eyes of his friend's. "Cas, no judgment here, but when I was scared, my dad gave me a .45. Didn't your dad, I dunno..." Because he really _doesn't know_. "Give you zero benefit of a doubt too?”

"It's not the demons or the malevolent spirits, it's humanity, it's—" Cas pauses, cuts his own train of thought short. He puts on a more assured face as he looks up at Sam. "You say it's a good show?"

The concern on the younger Winchester's face is replaced with a grin as kicks back on his bed next to Cas and presses play.

***

When Dean returns from a compromising case in Imperial (compromising because the case didn’t turn out to be anything more than a chick who snorted one too many shiny rocks), he doesn’t expect to be greeted home by another compromising position.

As he plots down the hall, playing tennis with his cranium, he spots out of the corner of his little eye Castiel coiled around Sam like Audrey II in _Little Shop of Horrors._

For someone caught in the plot of a 1980s horror movie, Sam actually looks comfortable. His arms are folded on his chest and his face, illuminated by the projection of flashing light in front of him, is intent on the screen, rather than the comatose cherub gripping him tight and raising him from flannel wear. He hasn’t seen Sammy this focused since _The Fellowship of the Ring_ came to theatres. John wouldn’t let him go on premiere night because of some Rougarou running around town, so Dean called up Richie, who—like everyone who ever works alongside a Winchester—owed Dean a favor, stole Baby’s keys, and took Sam to watch the beginning of Frodo’s journey. (Honestly, Dean would’ve gone too if he didn’t have a little brother—Liv Tyler _and_ Viggo Mortensen baring breasts? Sign him up.)

Then, all at once, Cas jolts upright like someone whose held their breath underwater for far too long, taking a fist of Sam’s jacket with him. He sees Sam scramble to find the remote, pressing a bunch of buttons at random until the television light goes still. Dean’s own heart is racing because w _hat the hell_ was _that_?

He doesn’t even notice his feet moving until he’s crouched on the end of Sam’s bed with a face full of angel. “Cas, what the hell?” he breathes incredulously, echoing his thoughts.

“Dean? _Dean_.” Now Cas has his frantic hands in Dean’s shirt, authenticating his presence. Luckily he isn’t wearing someone else’s—some _thing_ else’s blood. Then again, that hasn’t stopped them before. “You’re here, you’re not… you’re—”

“Sam?” he grits through his teeth, snapping his head to his brother’s.

Sam bites the fat of his lip. “I may have coerced him into watching _American Horror Story._ ”

“Super, just—Cas, hey, lookit me, buddy.” Dean’s calloused hands move to his shoulders, steadying Cas, who looks like some of the things he’s blasted with rock salt with an expression that looks a lot like Jimmy’s… “I’m here, alright? I’m not dying on my watch.”

“You know that doesn’t—”

“Shut up, Sam.”

His brother scoffs, “Don’t have to tell me twice” before he’s out the door.

Despite the potato-like sack of weird, dorky little angel burrowed in his chest, Dean feels out of place in Sam’s bedroom. Everything smells too much like his baby brother, and even though he’s not giving Cas the sex talk (or hedonism, as Cas puts it when he described his “educational” time with April) or sticking anything under his armpit ( _that_ he’s not ashamed of), he feels easier dealing with this in his own room.

Unfortunately, Cas doesn’t want to budge, so he’s stuck with Sam’s snotty scent. “’m comfortable in here.”

“You _would_ be,” Dean scoffs.

“What?”

“Cas, what’s up? Hmm?” he asks as he sits next to him, letting his hand rest just above his knee. It feels so natural; Cas’s unrequited warmth penetrating through his fingers. Dean _really_ wishes he’d killed something last night. “You were fine this whole time. Hell, you were practically spooning Sam when I walked in—”

“It scares me,” he rasps.

Dean croaks a laugh, “What, the show? We deal with that kinda crap every day, you know that. You know, without the makeup crew and the special effects, but still.”

Cas shakes his head. “It’s not that. You don’t understand…”

“Then _make_ me understand, damn it!” Dean barks. He hates himself for it, sees why Cas takes to Sam. Sam has more patience than an early bird. Dean, on the other hand, he has to message the bridge of his nose like it holds the secrets to life and start again: “Cas, please, man, I’m just trying to help here.”

Cas’s chest deflates like an old balloon and Dean can almost see his thoughts floating into the distant sky like one of its cousins. He opens his mouth to speak, fumbles over the tension laden air, and closes it just as quick. Dean doesn’t move his hand, nor does he divert his eyes. It’s the first time in a long time Cas isn’t directly meeting his gaze.

“It’s not the show,” he says, lifting his head and slowly meets Dean’s eyes. “It’s you.”

Dean’s certain he’s doing the squinty-eyed head tilt Cas always readily gives him. “What?”

“The show, this _American Horror Story,_ it’s just like what Metatron said. People don’t want to watch ghosts or demons or ‘werepires’, they want _reality._ ” Cas moves from the bed to stand in front of the black television. “It’s watching human nature unfolding into the grotesque reality that it is. The kind that I’ve seen _you_ become when you murdered those men, Claire’s friends.”

Dean hoists himself up, standing next to Cas, and in an unsure voice, says, “Those men weren’t her friends.”

“I know they weren’t, and I know you were under the Mark’s spell, I just—I… don’t know.” Cas closes his eyes like he’s pushing back tears. “It reminds me of how I couldn’t—I…”

“Cas.”

The angel turns his head and is instantly met with Dean’s lips on his. It’s a simple kiss—nothing more than two pairs of plump, wet flesh stacked like winning _Jenga_ pieces—until Cas reciprocates, and then Dean’s hands are cupping his face and his mouth his parting, breathing in the tangy taste of his tongue and quite literally stealing his breath.

Cas doesn’t pull away until his lungs are parched. Dean doesn’t mind one bit.

“Cas, you _did,”_ he says, getting intoxicated on secondhand air as he drills the words into his mouth: “You did.” Castiel’s smile, even at its lowest altitude, makes Dean’s heart swell like nothing else.

Behind them comes the sound of clobbering footsteps. “Hey, listen, Cas, I’m sorry I—” Sam lifts his eyebrows in an almost comical way. “Uh… interrupted something?”

“No, you didn’t, I was just—” Cas lets his hands fall to his sides as he wriggles out of Dean’s embrace and faces his brother. Then there’s a _real_ smile on his face. “What’s say we start from the beginning?”

 

 


End file.
